History's Hero
by PointlessPanopticon
Summary: In a world undergoing a painful cleansing, a leader of men has a conversation with a hero looking towards a brighter future. Spoiler: Everybody loses.


It was a weeks since the Operation had finally launched and was, naturally, completely successful. The deviant's governments decapitated, organization shattered. What else could be expected with their inefficient bureaucracy? Their deviant people largely eliminated or properly subjugated and lobotomized. It was as good as done. Their detections measures would let them root out the remainder and then it would be finally over. The deviants gone, after hundreds of years of care and painful secrecy, their Organization's role was almost over.

High Councilor Gregory was as relaxed as a man had ever been.

For a moment all was quiet as he leaned back in his the high-backed leather chair.

The first indication that the detection measures had failed was when the bald, robed man appeared not six feet from his desk, standing in complete silence. He was somehow managing to combine a sneer, a scowl, and a grin into a frankly disturbing facial contortion.

There was, of course, a small moment of shock, the natural hesitance that always came with sudden apparitions, but High Councilor Gregory recovered as fast as any human had a right to. One hand mashed the button under his desk and the other brought up his pistol and squeezed the trigger three times in quick succession before his body froze up, locked in place. The sound of the semi-automatic going off was deafening in the room and Gregory's ears immediately began to ring.

The result though, sadly, was less impressive. Three bullets, emitting a sort of gaseous agent, hung in front of the man. His snake-like visage was twisted in delight and amusement. A silvery cloak hung about his shoulders and a knotted wand was spun in his ring-adorned fingers. A snake slithered out of his robes, curling up on the floor beneath him.

_Not a python. A venomous snake of some kind? Too large. Deviant. It must be. _

"When I told myself I was finally ready to meet the man, on of the people, in charge of this…_inspired_ display I was sure that I would be disappointed. I expected perhaps fear, anger, panic, any of those really. For how often is it that the one at the top knows how to perform the actions of the soldiers at the bottom? Not often. Not at all."

Gregory was running through names. Possibilities. The man was powerful, adept, and unknown. He'd memorized, as all of the Organization were required to do, the names and faces of the most powerful deviants and this man did not exist. Could not exist. Their intel was phenomenal, not perfect perhaps, but close enough that it didn't really _matter_. He could name all the possibilities for spells that could hold him in place like this. He could recite their incantations and wand movements by heart thanks to the squibs among them. Of spells in general he knew them _all_ and was confident that given one of their tests he would likely score among the top percentage.

He _knew_ the spells that could make this deviant become invisible. _None_ should have been able to overcome the protections on this building, this office. The charms and baubles they'd pillaged from the deviants should have more than ensured that. Apparition was also impossible. No one but those from their organization could ever enter this office.

"But," the man laughed.

It was a horrible hissing sound.

"But imagine my surprise when your first response is to fire three rounds right towards me. Most amusing indeed. Though," he paused again, considering, before continuing in his high and horrible voice, "I _will_ have to torture you for this. Make you _suffer_. Though, let me be frank, I would have anyway as a simple matter of _course_. But nonetheless, I am impressed. For a muggle you are quite brave. Though quite foolish."

The gas and liquid emitting from the bullets had found the edges of their imprisonment. Trapped inside little bubbles, orbiting the man. With a flick of his wrist the bullets, the gas, and his gun vanished. Gone into the place vanished things go, wherever that was. They still didn't know.

Gregory was still frozen, unable to move or speak, only breathe and watch. The snake man fixed his eyes on his.

_Where are the guards? They should already be in here. _

"I killed them," responded the bald man off-handedly. "Likely the remainder of this base is dead or soulless as well. Snuffed out. It was quite difficult to come up with a spell that would prevent sound from travelling on such a scale, but nevertheless I, as I always have, prevailed. Your alarms and base defenses and cameras were quite easy to trick once I was ready for them. Making a new spell isn't all _that_ hard. I expect a sixth year could do something of the same. As for your people, well," the man paused, head tilted to the side.

"Neither dementors nor fiendfyre are very…discriminatory. Ordinarily quite the problem when some semblance of civility is required, but honestly that matters very _little_ now. Secrecy is completely out. An _improvement _I'm sure, for now I can take my rightful place in this world. Would you like to see? What I've done? Will do?

"I think I'll show you."

The man gestured to the television mounted on the wall opposite Gregory.

Now that he knew he could read his mind, Gregory applied his training, clearing his head of thoughts pertaining to their operations. His mind was a steel trap, when he was concentrating he was confident no one could break through.

Alas, his concentration lasted until the television flickered to life.

It was a shot, consecutive shots really, of London, Paris, Rome, Berlin, all major cities in Europe.

Burning.

Buildings, people, these were _scarcities_. It was all tongues of flame and enormous lions and snakes and dragons of fire tearing the cities apart and _growing_ as they did and oh god the _screaming_. Even the helicopter could pick it up. It was chaos.

He recognized it of course. Fiedfyre, masterfully cast. Accelerating at unprecedented speeds. Water wouldn't do a thing.

It would grow till the user either unraveled the spells or died, even then it wouldn't just _go out_. Then it would simply _stop_ being completely unstoppable. Merely lose its all-devouring nature.

A green skull devouring a snake hung overhead like a chandelier, looking _small_ in comparison to the carnage below. The reported death toll was already in the hundred of thousands and counting, including the countryside that had also been set aflame. The real number was likely many times higher. He knew the populations of those cities. His hope now was that –

"Don't feel _bad_ for not knowing. For not already hearing about this through your intelligence network. All the men who would have relayed it to you here are drooling corpses. It's…_hard_ to help genocide wizards without a soul. Though interestingly enough, I haven't done this _yet_," said the man gesturing to the thin golden chain around his neck then the television.

"Though I will a moment ago. Time is…interesting that way. Funnily enough, I'm sure your compatriots know now though. The other six. Know that their world will crumble about them like ash. Oh and if you're waiting for the gas you triggered, don't bother." The man flicked his wrist again and a shield, formerly invisible, shimmered into view. "Filters the air for me. Had the idea when I recalled my childhood during the war, during the bombings and drills. A gas mask in concept, but much much better. I almost succumbed the first time I ambushed one of your groups. I had to purge my entire body. _Rebuild it_. But I learned. I lived."

_His whole body. That's not…_

The man shrugged as he walked closer, "I admit, before my defeat I had neglected the power that I had experienced in my youth. The power of bombs and gas and bullets, well I should have never forgotten what I was told about them. What I _saw_. But my time in defeat, in misery, watching _your men carry out our genocide as a helpless wraith! _It taught me much."

The bald man was seething, teeth barred in rage.

Defeat. He was _defeated_ recently, born during World War II. Powerful. Were it possible his eyes would have widened. Alas, he was still frozen in place. Numb.

_He was dead. Supposed to be dead. Not even _they_ come back to life. Looked different too. _

"I was arrogant. I, Lord Voldemort, admit that. You will be one of the six men and women to hear that today, your fellow councilors and yourself. Take heed, you are among small company in the march of history."

He turned away for a moment before looking back at him, looking decidedly angrier, "I believed that wizards were unassailable. Protected by our magic and beyond you," his face twisted for a moment, a rictus of hate and fury, "_muggles_." He composed himself again, head twisting in a serpentine fashion as he started walking about the room.

"I underestimated you like I underestimated the Potters, Dumbledore, even my first encounter with your troops nearly…_ended_ my newly restored life in such a brutal and pointless fashion as I've already mentioned. That gas. That disease. It almost _crippled_ me." He slid right up to his ear, and from the close proximity he could see that his off arm was still withered and unresponsive.

"But I _lived_. I _persisted_." The man took a step back, back into his field of view, "I watched, spending time pursing my less public activities. I retrieved down my sources of power and life, hid them _deeper,_ where _none_ but I can reach them. I found the grave of my teacher and along with it two-thirds what I had been seeking all my life." He was almost crooning as he caressed his cloak and his wand. "Imagine my surprise when I learned the third," he fingered his ring, "was already _mine_. Of course, were it not for you, my ascension would have had a single blockade, a pitiful boy and a dangerous old man."

"But of course, the boy died when the train he was on was derailed and destroyed. He died along with the rest of his Hogwarts generation. His didn't even learn a single real spell. That I consider a real tragedy, honestly, I _do_. Dumbledore though, he fell to your toxins and disease and bombs, trying to save others. Foolish. He could have _lived!_. He could have saved himself."

Voldemort looked to be wavering glee and anger at that.

"That I'm less regretful about…I suppose." He looked almost _sad_ at that as he sighed, "Muggles accomplishing what I desired and feared to do as a matter of course. A step in some grand stroke. Impressive. Impressive. But eminently _punishable_."

Voldemort clicked the remote and the television changed scenes behind him. In Hong Kong a wave of dissolution was spreading out from a central point. People, cars, and buildings falling into dust. It moved too fast to out run. Were there a counter for loss of human life it would be moving almost comically fast.

He switched again to a shot of Cairo.

A settling mushroom cloud. New York was much the same.

_Oh God. _

The man just laughed.

"Interesting. Someone in Hong Kong has the same idea as me. Fight back. An interesting spell. I wonder how it works? Though your men truly waste no time either. Using atomic weapons to try to end this war that they started. I wonder whose idea that was, perhaps dissention in your ranks? I _know_ that wasn't part of your original plan. But, neither was this _mine_."

"Though…yes…though…_you_ only landed the first blow, proved me right," his voice sounded almost hollow, "I would have come anyway you know. I would have also preferred subjects and vassals to extermination, but alas," his hiss regained some of it venom, "_needs must_. Know this High Councilor Gregory, I will have victory. I _will live forever_."

_Monsters like this. _This _is why we did what we had to do. We were _justified_ you freak. _

He laughed his hollow and terrible laugh again, looking away from Gregory's eyes.

"Let me assure you, as terrible and great as I am, this is the first time I have _done _something like this. Even I, Lord Voldemort, have never attempted something like genocide, though I have often considered it and rejected it. Subjugation? Certainly. Clear classes? Of course! Genocide? Too costly on this scale. Too _barbaric_. But I shouldn't despair. Even should I fall I will never die and _look_, the new ground I hesitated to tread has already been broken. Going by current events genocide is the new standard. I intend then, to be a visionary."

He chuckled, a hissing sound, and paused for a moment, head cocked to one side.

"I wonder if you realize that the people who could have unraveled my hidden power are long gone. Gone forever now. Buried in the mass graves I used as the raw materials for my resurrection. Even when I inevitably _do_ fall, to your disease or your bombs, I have more than enough corpses safely hidden to occupy and be _reborn_ from. And you _muggles_ cannot hope to touch my _soul_."

"Truth be told, I would have never used this method before. Too much. Even for I. Not in some pathetic moral sense of course, but sheer pragmatism. Only wizards, seventy-seven to be precise, will do for a body for a wraith as mean as I. But there seems to be a remarkable surplus _as of late_." He was hissing again, face contorted, before he once again seemed to pull himself back.

_Insane. He's absolutely insane. _

Voldemort wasn't looking at him or the television, preferring to look out the reinforced window. He flicked his wand and the window vanished and a cold breeze seeped in. Much too cold even for the start of autumn.

"Enough fell without being infected by your gas to ensure that they were still good for my use. They will serve me well in death while they rallied against me in life. Yes, in life, in _my_ life, they shall still…they shall still live." His voice was almost _trembling _with passion.

_Monster. _

Gregory struggled against his bonds, to do what he didn't know. One on one was an iffy situation with _any_ deviant, and Lord Voldemort was exceptionally powerful. Yet still he struggled. He would never yield to this sub-human monster. They all needed to die. This was why.

"Where was I – ah, life. Ah let me tell a bit about life," he reached down with his arm, the snake crawling up it.

Nagini, that was the name of the snake that Voldemort bandied about. Nagini. The fires from the television behind him burned only brighter, the scene shift showing a bald man in robes, repelling bullets and unleashing hell upon San Francisco. Fighting a virtual army of the Organization's men.

It was Lord Voldemort, or would be, bereft of his shimmering cloak and wielding a different wand. He waved his wand and a street eating blast of living fire burst forth, spreading. The screen flickered as a bomb was detonated. It splashed against his shield and washed away as easily as the white gas that surrounded him. He killed many more with a horizontal blast that cut large swatches of rubble and men in half. A tank fired. Useless. He had already teleported, above it. The camera switched to another view and just in time to witness the blast.

The six blocks in every direction were leveled as the missiles fired from the jets that screamed overhead detonated. Silent and near undetectable if you weren't expecting them. The bald man, Lord Voldemort was in tatters. Parts spread across the block, legs and arms gone. A black mist rose off his body and then dissipated, the body shifted to that of a red headed man before crumbling into bones and dust. The soldiers fighting him were not spared the same fate.

No mist cradled their souls.

They just died.

"My life to be precise. I am eternal. I will never die. My life will never end. Even then, now, past, present, future " he gestured to the television, "I won't die. I _won't_. You are fighting an opponent that will never end and thanks to the dead you have to so…_graciously_ provided, will never be _gone_ for long. A snake eating it's own tail. Never-ending. _I will live forever._"

_He's obsessed with death or life. One of the two. Or both. _

Voldemort flicked to another station idly, viewing somewhere in Miami. People, breathing, still alive, simply crumpled to the ground. The camera was slumped at an angle, left behind of dropped by the cameraman. Lacking the will or means to move on its own. Frost coated the bushes and houses.

Another station.

Johannesburg under attack from serpents or fire, and giant leopards surrounded by blocks worth of purple clouds. People choking to death on the miasma. A lone man seemed to be guiding them, bating them to attack. A tank fired. A leopard fell. The man's head snapped back with a red spray.

The fire grew.

A group of unconscious robed people, executed by gunfire. Graves of women and men and children. Blood filling their robes and jeans and blouses and their faces were too covered in mud to be seen and you couldn't even tell who was who or what was what.

Wands in hands and hands in hands and they were all _dead_.

Another station.

A man in purple pajamas flinging soldiers about in Chicago before being obscured by an explosion. Another. So many dead that surely now the graves intended for the deviants were now filled by the people Gregory had tried to save instead. Both sides falling.

Mutual destruction.

Though not really. He knew that for every deviant lashing out in anger there was another in hiding and with this level of chaos, their hopes for tracking them were dim. They'd relied on their organization to defeat them, the stolen weapons of the deviants to root them out.

Only the most extreme measures would help now.

The final shot was of a mother holding her wailing child. One among many. The mother had died in stress induced child birth. The caption claimed it was inside an orphanage.

There was a pause and a chuckle before Voldemort _shifted_ again, eyes radiating anger and rage, "Perhaps with me _gone_, if I did not exist or was overcome by the Child of Prophecy, yes, yes, _yes_, then you could have won. You could have wiped us out. Stamped us into the dust, sure as jackboots clack on stone. After all, your protections are well prepared, well fortified."

He held his arms out wide.

"Aren't they?" he sneered.

"_Genius_ in places. But I possess tools that you can never grasp. Tools to overpower whatever protections and illusions of safety you craft," he gestured at his cloak with his wand again, then to his ring. "Also, means to interrogate and unravel and _torture_ that even _death_ can't protect you from."

The lights and television cut off, dying, and something crackled in the doorway beyond, an orange glow appearing around the corners of the reinforced door. Voldemort was unconcerned.

_I hope you burn. _

He held no illusion that Voldemort would not.

"I am not alone either. I _gather_ those you miss. Lifting them up in their hours of need. I've already begun. Some revile me still; some accept me. But I will continue. Persist." The snake coiled around Voldermort's shoulders seemed to tense, then flow off him, onto the desk, looking up at Gregory's frozen figure.

"The comedy, the _glory_ of this situation is that when all is said and done. When I have waged war on you for hundreds of years, when I have delved so deep into magic that all muggles can be hunted and found with a word and finally _eradicated_, when I have rebuilt the wonders you have destroyed, _I will be the hero_. The savior of the wizards. The un-ending immortal. The one who…_warned_ against your kind and returned in the hour of need to save all wizards everywhere. Yes that is how it must be."

He'd never seen a person more contorted by hate and fury.

The snake crawled up his arm, coiling around his neck, obscuring his view of the other snake that stood before him, the concept of 'monster' given flesh. "

There will be setbacks. Of that I do not doubt. Your Organization is as vast as it is dangerous and it has turned the whole world against us. Somehow. I still do not understand what you could have told them to do such a thing. Or perhaps you controlled them the entire time. Pointless speculation, really, only what _is_ matters. What _is_, is that governments hunt the survivors with your technology and training and yet still _some_ escape. Perhaps I will be the only one of my kind to survive the decade but I think not."

"Though…we surely are the last of the wizards with the…_therapy_ you've been giving the general population of the world. No more muggleborn, no more _half-bloods_. Only wizards. I can't sat they'll be missed. Just the survivors and their guide, their hero. _Me_. I shall protect them, of course. Provided they obey."

Voldemort looked him in the eyes.

_All of them so hard to kill like him? How? How to kill him and those _like _him? What plan could succeed?_

"You expect I will gift them with my powers, my _life_?"

He smiled. It was most unpleasant. "I will not. A savior must be _higher_ than the masses. I must stand alone to write history. For at the end, when the muggles are gone, and the small community of wizards, the survivors children's children look up to me in awe, at their hero, their _god_," he was nearly breathless and shuddered a little in delight. "I alone must be able to tell of the monsters that hunted us. I will live to tell them of the days in which I embraced my place as theirs and _world's_ leader."

He paused, looking almost thoughtful, then –

"Nagini, wound."

The fangs of the serpent coiled about him sank into his arm, fire and ice spreading quickly. He would have screamed if he could. The door had nearly dissolved, the fires raging outside. Frost coated the window as the cold in his veins intensified. The television had died earlier, the fires no doubt damaging the building's electrical network.

The frost seeped into the room, a bone chilling cold.

"No. Not him, feed on the nearby city, depopulate it of all muggles, Kiss them all," said Voldemort to the air, the fire backlighting his silhouette. The frost retreated.

"No. Not you," he repeated softly, "you die in pain and agony. The Kiss is too kind for you. Despite how I may…_admire_ your tenacity, you _must_ feel pain and I am pressed on time. I promised you that. Even I am struggling to control this many dementors. So many as of late. So much to do. _Too_ much to do. Come Nagini."

The snake flowed back up his arm and into his robes.

He lifted the golden chain and the small hourglass out of his shimmering cloak, holding both his wand and the Time-turner in his grasp. "I think I'll hide this among the Hallows before I head out. Wouldn't want to let it or them be destroyed along with this body," he was talking more to himself than anything and he looked suddenly very haggard and incredibly _worn_. Then the moment passed and he stared back into Gregory's eyes as though remembering he was there. The door collapsed as the fire ate through it. It spread on the floor around him, lapping at his heels and bounding towards Gregory in the forms of weasels and snakes. It bit at his ankles.

Voldemort flicked his wand again and the pain from the venom and the bite of the fire became more intense. No not just that. _Everything_ became hundreds of times more intense. Voldemort's pulled his shimmering cloak's hood over his head and vanished among the blinding orange and pain and smoke. Voldemort's voice was somehow still audible over the roaring flames.

He couldn't move his mouth; make a sound. Could barely understand a word the snake man was saying.

How had everything gone so very wrong? How had he overcome the stolen charms and protections? The wand, the cloak? It shouldn't have made a difference. How had everything fallen apart so quickly? Should they have waited? Could the deviants have eliminated this monster? Should they have waited only a little longer?

Did they make the right decision?

Did they choose rightly?

Was this the right path?

"– thus I leave you here to die with the other unnamed hundreds. Burn like all the other muggles. _Die_ like _all_ the others. Because in the end…only I can live forever. Only I can live as a hero, a god, and a savior. A savior. I think I like the sound of that. The Savior of the Wizarding World."

There was a whooshing crack and Gregory was left to die alone, burned like the cities of the world as a hero set out for his gloriously disappointing and empty future.


End file.
